My Saturday

I received a phone call.
It was from my grandmother.
Do know her and I aren't close.
I feel the need to be someone I'm not in her presence.
I'm sitting there with her at the table.
She and I order the exact same meal.
Her tea is sweeten.
As she is sitting there, feeding me stories, I began to cry.
I'm not too sure why I cry at times like this.
I was thinking of how she must of felt in Florida.
How she wished to be back there several years ago.
I was thinking of how she felt when she would say my grandfather's name.
How she missed him throughout the long nights.
I was thinking of how she manages to wear that ring.
I was thinking of why she denies about my mom's wrong doings.
And then I thought some more.
And it continued.
I thought of how happier she must of been years back.
The pictures she contains.
The antiques that keep her whole.
And it's little things like this that make me cry.
And as I began to write, I cry more.
And maybe it's just because I'm scared of dying.
And I'm scared for her.
And how she knows absolutely nothing about me.
I wish she knew how I felt towards her stories.
That I just want her to know I'm more like her than she thinks.
I watched her finish her meal.
She was so happy to have that meal with me.
I was quiet.
And much colder now.
As she payed the man, she smiled at me.
I opened the door, and headed back.
I wish I didn't think so much sometimes.
But I'm glad you didn't see my cry.
I wouldn't know why.